


To Drown in Despair's Loving Embrace

by Arcanista



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Sex, Breathplay, Drowning, Erosion of Boundaries, Forced Orgasm, Hurt No Comfort, Informed by 5.2 but only spoils through 5.0, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mind Control, Mind Rape, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Strangulation, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22937167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: What lies beneath the seas of the Tempest is a trap laid by the deadliest of Emet-Selch's enemies: hope. To hope is to waver, to stray from the path. There is no shame in needing guidance.
Relationships: Elidibus/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch
Comments: 6
Kudos: 50





	To Drown in Despair's Loving Embrace

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings are in the additional tags. Please heed them and nope out if you need.

Emet-Selch has neither the desire nor the need to follow the Warrior of Light and their merry little band into the desert. He has better things to do with his time than sweat and accumulate sand in places that sand has no business being. Instead, he pursues an idle curiosity: faint aetherial signatures he noticed during his time in Eulmore.

Tracing them leads him deep under the sea, which is easier to compensate for than sand and shining umbrality. Air settles around him like a second skin, a film that wards away the damp. A spare thought addresses the water pressure, leaving him naught but a minor headache coming from behind his-- this body's-- sinuses. As the light fades above him, he lets his perception drift into the aetherial spectrum, faint and lonely though it may be in this fragment of a fragment. Not even like unto candlelight: more like a spark in his palm, breathed upon that he might see a hair past his fingers.

It will suffice: enough to lead him deeper into the pelagic depths of the Tempest, the waters a silken shroud flowing around him.

Strange. He'd almost grown to appreciate the sight of the Warrior and their companions: they, at least, are something greater than those specks that abide here, even if they are not nearly close to whole. Even a match flares brightly in the utmost night. And the matter of that one's soul... whatever it is about it, it lies upon the knife-edge of memory, a blade he is not entirely certain he wishes yet to cut himself upon.

It cannot be of any great importance. After all, they are nothing more than a twisted parody of a true person, a fragile little creature not even worthy of contempt. If his curiosity is satisfied ere the Light consumes them and sets matters upon this shard back unto the proper course, then well and good. If not, then he shall simply have to go unsatisfied. A pity, but of no real consequence.

Of course, there is always the chance, however slim, that they are in fact able to endure the Light, bend it to their will. But that would simply answer his questions in a different manner.

Would they accept the hand he would outstretch, should they prove to be a truly worthy being? Mm, more likely than not several of them would need to die. Lahabrea's abandoned puppet would likely deny him. The elezen, though-- hmm, hadn't Elidibus primped the pump there, as it were? How unlike him, to take interest in an individual. Desperate times, Emet-Selch supposes.

The Warrior, now-- that one is an interesting question. An enigmatic little nut to crack.

But a subtle change to his surroundings draws his attention from his musings. He perceives something other than sea life and mountains, becomes aware of _constructions_ of all things, that which should seem wholly unnatural to his senses-- but no, nothing could be more natural. His eyes widen as he traces the shape that the aether outlines.

"It can't be," he whispers to the unending depths, the bubbles of his breath crushed away as soon as they leave his active locus. To be sure, what he perceives are ruins, crusted with millennia of coral growth, eroded by currents, but the _shapes_ \--! Yes, this a building and a shard of a street, traceries of faded aetherial ornamentation glimmering before him. Emet-Selch sinks to street level and looks up, and up, and up at the vast entrance to a once-noble edifice. Still noble, despite all the ravages of sea and time.

He extends his palm, a soft light illuminating the façade. Behind him a school of fish bubbles away, startled at even this faded intrusion. With trembling hand he reaches to brush his hand against the encrusted door, very likely the first soul to do so since the end. It does not yield; of course it cannot so easily, calcified and overgrown. The power he brings to bear is so gentle: foolishly, he finds himself afraid that he might somehow do harm to this marvel he has found, this glorious building that has endured even longer than he.

The salt and damp that stings his eyes comes from something other than the sea.

After too many moments of carefully worrying away at it with the most delicate of aether, the door cracks open for Emet-Selch, and he squeezes his way inside. So too have the waters done their damage, but-- these are the inlays on the floors that he knew so well, these are the lamps, the benches. This must have been a residential building once, though he cannot tell precisely where in his beloved city he floats.

He bends, touching the ground, marred by layers of algae grown into the shapes of these elegant patterns. How could he have once simply stood on such floors and not been enraptured by their beauty? How could all this have been waiting here for so many years, with none to know that it yet existed?

A desperate impulse seizes him: he parts his lips and expulses a single breath of air. It expands in a rush, forcing water and sea life from these sacred walls. He lands lightly on his feet, the sound echoing through the damp lobby. He glances from wall to wall as the last water drips away; with a flick of one hand it evaporates, leaving this place dry at last.

It is too dark in here still, only the barest threads of aether and the faint glow in his hand giving sight to this place. He glances up to the lamps high on the wall, once-gleaming metal fixtures corroded from salt. It cannot be worth the time and the effort to truly restore this place-- such a task would surely be beyond even his aetherial reserves, perhaps beyond even what remains in this dying shard. And he has duties to attend to. But perhaps he might manage an approximation...

Emet-Selch begins with the lamps, his eyes shut as he fixes their shapes in his memory, their warm glow shining from above. Disorienting, for them to be so much higher now, but that is a triviality. He snaps his fingers, and light shines against his lids. He looks up and gazes upon them, face bathed in that long-lost, never-forgotten light.

That such a small thing could be so beautiful, even if merest glamour-- the floors he tends to next, restoring them to polished gleam, geometric patterns so simple, so intricate. Then the walls, and the ceiling, and with the broad strokes accomplished, he places the planters that occupy his mind's eye, lush with flowers extinct for an eternity. Cushions on the benches, thick-woven carpets, all a dream of a place long gone.

He clambers up onto the nearest bench, feeling only illusionary cushioning beneath him, not time-ravaged rock, and he gazes upon this small bit of his work. If more of the city is here, perhaps with the time he has at his disposal, he could... To see his home once again, spread out before him, even if it is just an evocation of his own memories...

But flesh tires, and he is, paradoxically, too excited to push this form beyond its limits just to explore further. A little rest will only serve him well now, and when he wakes he can decide further what to do with this find. He curls up on the bench, tugs his jacket up to serve as a makeshift pillow, and lets the comfort of this place draw him down into a sleep more sound than he has known in some time.

When he awakens, he is not alone. It takes him a few moments for it to register what's changed while he rubs the sleep from his eyes. "Elidibus," he says, sitting up. "This is most surprising-- does not my idiot grandson still occupy your time? To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Elidibus merely watches for long enough to make Emet-Selch feel judged for a misstep somehow. "Your-- ah. The Emperor of Garlemald is well in hand; the form which I inhabited merely awaiting my return. I thought to inquire after your progress here. Following previous errors here, we cannot be too careful."

So that is what it is: of course Elidibus finds himself fixated on a mere linguistic convenience. As if he would tangle his tongue in knots phrasing the relation circuitously just to satisfy Elidibus' tiresome need for detachment. "Everything is proceeding utterly according to plan here," says Emet-Selch, stretching out his arms and legs. "So well, in fact, that I had a moment of free time to look into, well, all of this. You'll forgive me that I spruced up the place a little; I simply couldn't help myself."

"I see." Elidibus glances around, taking in the sights of Emet-Selch's glamouring more thoroughly. "And what, pray, do you intend to do to secure our success here? That... flesh of yours can hardly be of the same use as it was when last you bore it."

Does he truly have nothing better to do with his time? Emet-Selch rolls his eyes. "It's _comfortable_. The Warrior of Light will proceed inexorably to their and the world's doom with or without my intervention, and so I had might as well learn what I may about the state of these mortals as they stand. As I must use _some_ flesh to interact with them, I see no reason why it should not be in a shape to which I have grown accustomed."

"Far too accustomed."

A flip of one gloved hand waves off the tiresome worry. "I do not tell you how to do your duties, Elidibus. I pray you, do not trouble yourself so with the specifics of mine." The air prickles around him as though filled with a great many teeth-- but, no, just his imagination. The moment passes.

And yet, it seems nothing will satisfy Elidibus in whatever mood he's in at the moment. He gestures around the room. "Do your duties involve imitating our home in such manner? Gilding what remains of this pallid, ravaged fragment? Emet-Selch, if you find yourself in need, I am ever willing to speak with you."

Emet-Selch hops off the bench, standing and looking down at Elidibus as his white-robed compatriot approaches. "Your concern is appreciated," he says, "but unnecessary. Should I not, finding such remains, see them restored to their glory? Or at least a vision thereof?"

And that, as far as Emet-Selch is concerned, should be that. But the brush of Elidibus' clawed gloves against his cheekbone, palm upon his jawline sends the start of a message that truly need not be writ to completion. "I do worry for you so," says Elidibus, his voice tendriling around against the back of Emet-Selch's neck. "Surely you must realize that however so much this may resemble our home, it too is naught but a pale shadow, divided like the rest of this world. Only through His grace shall we see the truth of what was once again."

"By His grace indeed," says Emet-Selch, tilting his head away from those claws. "Your _worry_ is--"

"-- Should I not see to the state of my brothers of the Convocation in such trying times?" says Elidibus, the mildest of smiles brushing over his lips. "We cannot always see the path directly below our feet. I would not see you misstep so close to the end. I pray you, but permit me to offer guidance."

It is so foolish of him, to be aware of the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, to have some instinct screaming 'danger' at him. Elidibus more than any other sees to his duty, and thus would not, could not pose _danger_ to another dedicated unto Zodiark's service. And his judgement seldom errs. Therefore, the bind is thus: to deny the need for guidance is only to prove its necessity.

Emet-Selch does not _want_ Elidibus' interference. This is very, very different from the _need_ for such. The shield he raises now is glibness: "I truly couldn't keep you here any longer. You know how the time varies between shards. If you leave Varis off his leash for too long he's apt to strangle on his own tongue. We can speak of our troubles once I've returned from dealing with this place."

"I have measures in place. I will know if I must return," says Elidibus, his hand returning to Emet-Selch's cheek, claw-tips pressing delicately below his eye. His grip on Emet-Selch's jaw now is tight enough that to move away would require force. "Where I am needed most now is here."

There is nowhere to turn: Elidibus leans in and seals his lips against Emet-Selch's, the real-unreal texture of Elidibus' fleshless form tingling with aetherial energies. Serpentine power slips between Emet-Selch's lips, sweet and soothing and oily and adamant as it presses inward, becoming his very breath. Elidibus draws his head back, but that power remains. "You will not falter. Together we will see to that."

To speak a response is impossible with that tendril of power prising his mouth open. It has no substance, there is nothing of it to even see, but its _presence_ demands, commands, presses its way down his throat, commanding all of Emet-Selch's air. He does not move so much as a muscle-- this of his own volition-- as he gazes down at his dear companion, paralyzed by this body's fear. Not his own. Never his own, not of Elidibus. He has nothing to fear.

Elidibus' claws brush over Emet-Selch's lips, needle-sharp. "There is no shame in needing guidance," says Elidibus, a smile distorting his face. "This is why we none of us walk alone. I am here to catch you."

The air he breathes is thick, slick, coating his awareness, a constriction and an obstruction both: that which this fragile form needs more than anything else granted at Elidibus' pleasure. That he might know in his soul that there are arms here to grasp him should he stumble: that he might know in his soul the precipice he dangles over. It is by His grace alone, flowing through His Emissary that Emet-Selch is granted breath.

The force binding down Emet-Selch's throat grows heavier, more substantial, strangling. It pulls him higher, off his feet, dangling just off the ground. It is by His grace alone that Emet-Selch is denied breath, struggle though he may to reclaim it. Elidibus watches, trailing his fingers down to caress Emet-Selch's desperate throat, to feel each attempt for breath. " _Trust_ in Him," says Elidibus with the voice of incense-smoke. "But trust, and you will not fall."

And when his vision begins to grow dark, only then is he granted a sweet sip of air, its honeyed taste sending a tremor all through his body. Gloved fingers flex, grasping at nothing at all, and then his breath is withheld once more.

Tendrils felt but not seen begin spiralling their way up his legs, beneath his robe's skirts. The surge of panic almost makes him forget that he cannot breathe. Almost, but he struggles all the harder, his body's ephemeral needs dominating his consciousness above all else. Elidibus' impassive face remains a single fixed point before him, even as the rest of the world blurs and wavers.

Air trickles through the obstruction, just enough to sweeten each breath, little enough to leave him dizzy, leaving him agonizingly aware of the sensation crawling up his body. Under-layers come undone, tugged down, away. Elidibus rests a hand upon his chest, and says, "Give yourself over to Him. I will take you to the edge and await you on the other side."

With each breath comes silken impositions upon his very thoughts, sweet comfort dripping upon his lips, insistent, urgent, slicing away at the edges of that traitor, hope that had crept in upon him spending so much time around mortal men. See how the flesh he embodies is so fragile, flimsy, reacting to _Elidibus'_ command and not his own? The hairs that rise all over the body, the instinctive panic borne of strangulation, the cruel stirring he feels between his legs as slick coiling force gropes over the bare skin that comes exposed.

He cannot speak at all, cannot try to deny Elidibus, for all the good it would do him if he could. Emet-Selch shudders in that cruel, insistent grip, cannot bring himself to succumb just yet.

The force down his throat snuffs any sound he could make, controls his voice as adamantly as it does his breath. Oh, how he tries to cry out when he feels delicate probing tendrils against his-- this body's. This body's. His back goes rigid. He should simply give himself over to this. He must. Give in and be refreshed and rewarded, reassured on his path. No longer be troubled by his foolish hopes that there might be something worth saving in what now exists. Such hopes only exist to be dashed, have been failed, have never served any purpose other than to bring him hurt. Give in now, and he might save himself that pain.

All that Elidibus does in this moment is to guide him back to Zodiark's loving warmth. The tendrils penetrate him, and he chokes desperately at the sensation, feeling every slick trail of force squirming and probing inward. His head spins, lightheaded from the lack of air, and the one down his throat only thrusts deeper, constricting the airway all the tighter.

Despite himself, he's fully erect, pressing robe-skirts outward. That he's still mostly clothed is no concession to modesty: before Elidibus, all of him lies bare, no matter what or how he might cover himself.

Bodily reflex wins out: his eyes squeeze shut, watering; his feet kick at the ground. The pressure inside, the pleasure as those lines of will and force swell and thrust spread through his groin, demanding the attention his screaming lungs will not relinquish. A moan dies in his throat, no sound able to escape.

Elidibus looks up at him and smiles, the gentlest of encouragements. And yet _he_ is the one who controls the deft, inexorable tendrils inside him, that curl around his, this body's, his agonizingly stiff cock. Emet-Selch tries to look away, but cannot, finds his head held fast as the rest of him.

It's too much to bear, far too much. He can't hold it any longer, but just as he's about to find any release, the tendrils curl agonizingly tight around his cock, jerking him back from the edge. He feels the whimper in his throat even if he cannot voice it.

"You know what you must do," says Elidibus, stroking the agonized length through glove, through layers of robes. "You're so close."

When Elidibus lets go, Emet-Selch feels the thin gasps of air he's permitted turn sickly-sweet and heavy. The tendrils inside him tangle insistently around themselves; those outside relax around his cock, a relief but not the right kind, not enough of one.

He realizes that it is no longer air he is being given to breathe: some fluid floods his lungs, intoxicating, impelling him to feel, to _know_ the truth of his tasks, take peace in Zodiark's grace. He is drowning, held here, tangled in aetherial tendrils, pleasure searing him inside and out.

There is nothing else for him but this: the purity of Zodiark's command, the ecstasy of service unto Him. Why would he ever allow himself to consider that he might find a way that would... that would... He can't remember. It can't be important.

Blessed release surges through him, arching his back rigidly. The tendrils squeeze and tug his length as he looses it against his robes, only sliding away when he finally finishes. Those inside him withdraw one by one, making him shudder with each.

With a waved hand, Elidibus returns Emet-Selch to his feet, and the strangling force down his throat slips back and out with a wet slithering sound. He doubles forward, coughing up liquid onto the illusory floor, wheezing for unrestricted air. Elidibus kneels beside him, hands coming to rest on his shoulders.

"I never doubted that you would find your way," says Elidibus, smoothing back Emet-Selch's hair, using a sleeve to wipe his face.

Emet-Selch shuts his eyes until his breath grows steady. "Of course," he says, body shuddering reflexively. "Thank you, Elidibus, for your offer of guidance."

Elidibus helps him back to his feet, only letting go when it's clear he can stand unaided. "I but do my duty."

"And I, mine."


End file.
